There were some who followed him even then, and this is what they reported to incredulous ears when they returned.  Barry ran straight for the left hand corral and wrenched at the gate, which appeared to be secured by a lock and chain.  Seeing that it would not give way he ran around to the barn, and came out again carrying a saddle and bridle.  These he tossed over the high fence into the corral.  Then he picked up a loose scantling and with it pried and wrenched off the top bar of the fence in one section and vaulted into the enclosure.

The black stallion had whinnied once or twice during this time and the great black, shaggy dog had come snarling and whining about the feet of his master.  Now the stranger tossed on the saddle and cinched it with amazing speed, sprang onto his mount, and urged it across to the other side of the corral.  Up to that moment no one in the little crowd of watchers had suspected the intention of the rider.  For the fence, even after the removal of the top bar, was nearly six feet in height.  But when Barry took his horse to the far side of the corral and then swung him about facing the derailed section, it was plain that he meant to attempt to jump at that place.  Even then, as O’Brien explained later, and many a time, the thing was so impossible that he could not believe his eyes.  There was a dreamlike element to the whole event.  And like a phantom in a vision he saw the black horse start into a sharp gallop; saw the great dog sail across the fence first; saw the horse and rider shoot into the air against the stars; heard the click of hoofs against the top rail; heard the thud of hoofs on the near side of the fence, and then the horseman flashed about the corner of the barn and in an instant his hoofs were beating a far distant tattoo.

As for the watchers, they returned in a dead silence to the barroom and they had hardly entered when Mac Strann stalked through the doors behind them; he went straight to O’Brien.

“Somewhere about,” he said in his thick, deep voice, “they’s a man named Dan Barry.  Where is he?”

And O’Brien answered:  “Mac, he was sittin’ down there at that table until two minutes ago, but where he is now I ain’t any idea.”

The tall, skeleton form of Haw-Haw Langley materialised behind Mac Strann, and his face was contorted with anger.

“If he was here two minutes ago,” he said, “he ain’t more than two minutes away.”

“Which way?” asked Mac Strann.

“North,” answered a score of voices.

O’Brien stepped up to Mac Strann.  He said:  “Mac, we know what you got in your mind.  We know what you’ve lost, and there ain’t any of us that ain’t sorry for Jerry—­and for you.  But, Mac, I can give you the best advice you ever heard in your life:  Keep off’n the trail of Barry!”

Haw-Haw Langley added at the ear of Mac Strann:  “That was Jerry’s advice when he lay dyin’.  An’ it’s my advice, too.  Mac, Barry ain’t a safe man to foller!”